


The Last Costa Coffee Along the M6

by sheerrloockk



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bent over a sink sex, Blow Jobs, Laying on a sink sex, M/M, PWP, Smut, Teen!Sherlock, Uni!John, Unimportant sexuality, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheerrloockk/pseuds/sheerrloockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s never had sex with a bloke in a Costa loo at one in the morning before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Costa Coffee Along the M6

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god I wrote straight up smut. It's probably awful. I'm sorry. Everything else I've ever written has been primarily angst or fluff or whatever but this is just smut. Holy god. Anywho, this is semi in response to the tumblr post about (approximately:) "Forget Coffee Shop AUs, what about middle-of-no-where diners at one in the morning AUs!" So uh. A Costa Coffee at Motorway Services along the M6. And Teenlock because why not. Is it still "Teenlock" if John isn't a teen, but Sherlock is? (I'm asking the big questions tonight.) Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and feedback is welcome! Un-Britpicked. ~K

They are somewhere between Carlisle and their destination, Edinburgh, when Bill Murray insists they stop for some coffee. John agrees easily, as his eyes are starting to ache, and they pull over into the first motorway services they see. Bill and Mike are out of the car before John has even turned it off, groaning with pleasure as they stretch their legs. They’ve been in the car for hours, and there are still hours to go.

“We’re going to be massively late,” Mike notes as they enter the Costa.

“It’s because you drive like my grandmother,” says John. “It’s someone else’s turn to drive for a bit after this, by the way. I’ve been driving since Manchester.”

“I’ll do it,” offers Bill. “But I’m going to need a bit of a nap, first.” John sighs, though it’s not unreasonable. They are driving all the way from Brighton to Edinburgh, possibly the longest, stupidest road trip they’ve ever attempted. Over seven hours of driving, plus all of the stops they’d made for food, or the loo, or just because, and now it’s nearly one in the morning and they’re all exhausted.

“Alright,” says John. “I’ll stay up a bit, watch the car, and you two take a nap. Then I can sleep in the car and Mike can keep you company while you drive. Good idea?”

Bill nods and yawns.

“Sounds good,” says Mike. “I’m gonna lay down in the backseat if you don’t mind. I’ll get coffee when I wake back up.”

“Same,” says Bill and he swipes John’s car keys before John can stop him. “Give me about an hour, alright?” John nods, fully intending to wake him after forty minutes. He turns back around towards the counter where a bored-looking girl stands behind a register.

“Can I getchya?” she asks.

“Coffee,” he says.

“Size?”

“Small.” Better not overload on caffeine, he thinks. Not if he plans to sleep in the car. She gets him his coffee and he pays. He adds some milk and sugar to make the swill taste at least moderately acceptable, and then goes to take a seat.

He chooses a seat near the door, facing the windows so he can still see the car. He sips his coffee, mulling over their trip thus far. Their trip to the beach had been successful. The weather was immaculate and Mike’s uncle, who’d put them up, had been very open-minded about Bill bringing home a girl whose name they didn’t remember. Bill now has sunburn on his back and a phone number in his pocket. Mike refused an extremely eager young lady, blushing furiously. The women of Brighton had all but ignored John, but he isn’t that fussed about it. He is _bored_. Bored of all of the usual one-night stands he’s been doing at Uni. They’re all the same – meet a pretty girl, buy her a few drinks, chat her up, head back to someone’s place, take the Tube home in the morning, repeat the next weekend. He’s tired of it. He wants something new. Something different. _Extraordinary_.

And now they’re heading up to Scotland to visit John’s grandparents, see the sights, and get heroically drunk on Scottish whiskey. John wonders if Scottish girls will be interested in English Uni students and chuckles to himself.

As he sits there, another car pulls up into the lot. It’s sleek, shiny, and looks extremely expensive. Even though the lot is nearly empty, the driver slides into the spot directly to the right of John’s shabby car. The driver gets out and John can’t help but be surprised. He’d expected someone in their thirties or forties, someone who looked like they had a career and maybe two kids at home. Instead, this kid could be underage. His pale, angular face and mop of curly hair made him look like he belonged in a painting rather than real life, but his expression reminds John that this is a person, not a work of art. The boy looks angry, as though trying to keep his temper in check and failing. The boy slams the car door shut and barrels into Costa.

“Red Eye,” he says in a clipped tone.

“What?” asks the girl, confused. The boy sighs.

“Red Eye. You put two shots of espresso into hot coffee. I know people outside London are heathens, but I _assumed_ that since this is an establishment run in and outside London, everyone would receive the same training.”

“Sorry,” says the girl, clearly not sorry at all, but she goes about her job, throwing together the young man’s order. He pays, pointedly does not leave a tip, and sits down at the table behind John’s. After less than a minute, he heaves a sigh and gets back up. He glares at the girl behind the register and pulls off the lid.

“This is _disgusting_ ,” he says. “How can you even _serve_ this kind of sludge to customers within health codes?” John runs a hand over his face. It’s so depressing when people that attractive are this unkind. “It’s bloody _inhumane_ to try to serve this to normal specimens of humanity. How can you even –”

“Leave off,” John says, having had enough. It’s dark, he’s tired, and he knows exactly how terrible it is to work this late and have customers this rude.

“I believe it’s none of your business,” says the boy, rounding on him. “Lord knows you probably can’t even tell how awful it is since your tastes are so stunted. Like your height and ability to form complete sentences.” John stands and the girl behind the counter looks nervous. The dark-haired boy is much taller than John, but he’s scrawny and John plays rugby.

“I think I told you to leave her alone,” says John, enunciating carefully. “She just works here. Look at that, two complete sentences.” The boy rolls his eyes.

“If you expect me to be impressed because you can weave four words together in a grammatically correct way, you should probably go find your primary school teachers and let them know their work was not in vain. All that rugby must have been exceptionally detrimental to your brain growth.”

“Excuse me?” asks John.

“Head injuries,” says the boy slowly and loudly, as if speaking to a child. “Losing – brain – cells.” He taps his own temple. “Clearly I need to explain to you what a brain is, since you _don’t have one_.”

John put down his coffee and walks over to the boy. John looks up into his face, and for a moment, the other man looks a bit nervous. But the expression flickers away after less than a second, and John pulls his fist back and punches him square in the face. The girl screams and the boy falls backward, arse against the linoleum. His nose begins to gush blood almost immediately, so John calmly grabs a handful of napkins and kneels down to help him.

“Don’t bloody touch me,” says the boy, snatching napkins from John’s hand.

“Sorry,” says John. “You really shouldn’t go around insulting people, though.”

“Sh-Should I phone the police?” asks the girl.

“No,” says the boy immediately. “Just leave it.” The boy keeps a napkin pressed to his nose and now that he’s close, John can see that his eyes are icy blue against his pale skin. Even though it’s July, he’s wearing a winter coat, and he’s so odd that it seems to make sense.

“What’s your name?” asks John. He hadn’t planned to ask that, but now that he has, he realizes that he does want to know this beautiful arsehole’s name.

“Why?” The boy looks very suspicious.

“Just curious,” says John. “Ought to learn your name now that I’ve punched you in the face.”

The boy hesitates for a moment before saying, “Sherlock.”

“I’m John. Let me help you with that.”

“You’ve already _helped_ enough, thank you.”

“Come on,” says John. “I’m going to be a doctor. I can get it to stop bleeding.”

“You’re a pre-med student and you punched me in the face. Isn’t that against your little oath?”

“Haven’t made it yet,” he says. “Still a student. Not a physician. Come on, let me help.” Much to his surprise, Sherlock drops his hand and waits. After a second, John grabs a new napkin and leans Sherlock’s head back gently.

After a few minutes, Sherlock’s nose stops bleeding so John takes him into the men’s loo and wipes his face off.

“Sorry I punched you,” he says. “Bit of an overreaction, but you were a little harsh on that girl.”

“So what?” snaps Sherlock.

“She didn’t deserve it,” says John.

“Oh yes, _deserving_ bad treatment. It’s all about who _deserves_ what, isn’t it?” John doesn’t pry, but he’s sure Sherlock’s comment had little to do with the Costa worker.

“How old are you anyway?” asks John. “Are you even old enough to drive?”

“I’m legally an adult, _thank you_ ,” says Sherlock. “I can do what I want and go where I want. No one can stop me.”

“Clearly, since you’re on the M6 at one in the morning by yourself,” says John. “So what are you running away from?”

“Who says I’m running _from_ anything? For all you know I’m running _to_ somewhere.”

“If you were, you’d be back in your car and on your way already,” says John. “But since you’re from London, or I assume you are since you mentioned it earlier, you’re pretty far now and you can stop for a breather and some coffee.”

Sherlock looks at him, amazed.

“That was… impressive,” he says.

“Thanks, but it wasn’t that hard to guess,” says John. “Speaking of, how did you guess that I play rugby?”

“I didn’t guess. I observed,” says Sherlock. He looks a bit smug, and John can’t help but smile. “Your physique – you’re muscled and strong. You’re clearly in peak physical condition, and since the academic year just finished, your recreational rugby team has just finished up. Considering your size, you’d likely be a back player. Possibly a wing or possibly a center. Also, you have a _BART’S RUGBY_ sticker on your car.”

“Wow,” says John.

“How’d I do?” asks Sherlock eagerly.

“Very close. I’m a scrum.” Sherlock sighs, clearly disappointed. “That was amazing,” John adds, and Sherlock looks up.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I mean. Just. _Extraordinary_.” For a split second, Sherlock’s face splits into a smile, and John’s stunned looking up at him.

“Yes well,” Sherlock says, pulling his expression back to one of indifference. “I am a genius, after all.”

“Oh really?” says John.

“Yes,” says Sherlock. He stares at John and with a jolt John realizes that he’s serious.

“So you’ve got genius super powers of observation?”

“And deduction,” says Sherlock. “I observe and from my observations, I made logical, deductive conclusions. You didn’t enjoy the slop they serve here any more than I did.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I saw you make a face when you took a sip.”

“You weren’t even facing me!”

“It’s dark out and the windows reflected you,” says Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

“But you were still watching me,” says John, determined to win this point. To his surprise, Sherlock _blushes_.

“Yes well… I uh… I was observing my surroundings,” he says, stumbling over the words. He looks nervous, and the blush isn’t fading from his cheeks. John bites his lip to keep from smiling, because he’s twenty-two years old and he knows exactly what it means when someone blushes when they’re caught staring.

“Liked what you saw?” he asks. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he flushes even redder. John can’t stop the grin taking over his face now. Sherlock splutters half-responses, clearly unable to keep his train of thought, so John reaches forward and lays his hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

“I guess it makes sense. You noticed that I’m in _peak_ physical condition from playing rugby. And rugby? It’s a _rough_ sport.” Sherlock’s pupils dilate and John moves a bit closer. “Really rough. Lots of lads throwing each other to the ground, slamming bodies together, that sort of thing.” He feels Sherlock exhale onto his hand. He glances down and sees that Sherlock’s hands have balled into trembling fists. John slides a few inches closer and now they’re chest to chest.

This is it. This is the new, extraordinary thing he’s been waiting for – this strange, beautiful genius young man who _noticed_ him. His hand slips from Sherlock’s mouth and slithers down his neck and he wraps his other arm around Sherlock’s waist and up his back. Sherlock’s breathing heavily and for an instant, he looks unsure. Then his lips are against John’s, and it’s glorious. Sherlock’s limbs are all over him, he’s got a hand in John’s hair and a hand on John’s arse, pulling him closer, grinding them together.

John’s never had sex with a bloke in a Costa loo at one in the morning before. It’s certainly something he’d been missing out on, though. He tries to push Sherlock’s coat off his shoulders and Sherlock gets the message quickly enough.

“Wait,” he gasps, jerking his arms through the sleeves. He lays the coat on the counter delicately. “It was expensive,” he says before he grabs John’s face and snogs the living daylights out of him. John’s hands roam all over Sherlock’s back, gliding over his silk shirt and down towards his arse. He grabs and squeezes and he hears Sherlock’s breath catch, so he does it again. John’s leaning against the sink counter and he pulls Sherlock closer, and they’re grinding clothed erections against each other.

“Too many clothes,” Sherlock gasps and pulls at John’s jacket and t-shirt. John pulls back and rips them off while Sherlock goes straight for John’s jeans. He pulls them down, pants and all, then drops to his knees and pulls John’s cock into his mouth without a second thought. _Oh, God._ John’s overwhelmed. That hot, wet mouth, with those lush, lascivious lips against his dick, and _Jesus_ it’s perfect. The man’s a genius in more ways than one. His tongue twists over the head and John feels his eyes roll back. He fists his hands in Sherlock’s dark, curly mop and pulls. Sherlock hums, pulling John deeper down his throat than John could even imagine, and for a moment John’s afraid it’s going to be over.

The moment passes, but his thighs are shaking and he needs, absolutely _needs_ , to flip Sherlock around somehow. He pulls Sherlock up and goes straight for the clasp of his fancy posh trousers. Like lightning, Sherlock undoes all of the buttons of his silk shirt and tosses it on top of his coat. While John pulls down his trousers to reveal black cotton pants, Sherlock kisses his neck, biting and sucking, and it’s the best thing John’s felt in ages. It’ll leave a mark, but John doesn’t care. Sherlock’s hands are on his chest, and the feel of his skin beneath John’s hands – it’s all exactly what he wanted. He yanks down Sherlock’s pants, turns Sherlock around, and pushes him across the small room against the wall. He follows, pushing Sherlock back against the hard surface after he bounced back.

“John,” Sherlock gasps as John slides his cock between Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Lucky for you, my friends and I are on holiday,” says John, and he can hear that his voice is lower than before. “So I’m actually prepared.” He grabs his jacket and pulls his wallet out of one of the pockets – there’s a condom among the bills. He pulls a small tube of lube from his jeans pocket – the same jeans he’d worn out last night with Mike and Bill, though he’d had no luck himself. But times change, and now Mike and Bill are asleep in the car and John is moments from fucking this beautiful creature before him.

“ _Yesss_ ,” Sherlock hisses and John slicks up his hand and presses a finger inside Sherlock. “Oh _God,_ _yes_!” Sherlock groans, pushing back against him, but John slams him into the wall, keeping him in place. He slips another finger in and Sherlock goes taught, letting out a keening noise that only turns John on even more.

“I’m ready, I’m ready, John, I’m _ready_ ,” Sherlock whines and John believes him. He slides the condom on, gives himself a few thorough, lubed strokes, and presses in.

Shit, it’s heavenly. Sherlock’s so tight and hot and bloody perfect. He’s a stranger and it’s never been more exhilarating than this. They’ve known each other for maybe an hour and it’s been nothing but skin slapping against more skin, pure physicality, sexuality, _violence_. He’s slamming into Sherlock, who’s then bashed against the wall. Sherlock’s using it for leverage, John can tell, because with every thrust, he feels Sherlock reciprocating.

Sherlock has his arms braced on the wall to keep his head from pounding against it. Without waiting, John pulls Sherlock back from against the wall, holding him to his chest. He swivels them around takes two quick steps that Sherlock automatically follows, and then bends Sherlock completely over the sink counter.

He sweating, and he can see the sweat on Sherlock’s back as well. But he never wants this to end, because this is the fuck of his life and he knows it. He watches his cock slide in and out of Sherlock’s body and he wants this feeling forever. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know Sherlock and Sherlock doesn’t know him, because this connection – this raw, unbridled, primitive, _hot_ connection – is special. It has to be special. He wonders how close Sherlock is to coming, because he could do this for a long, long time.

“Sherlock,” he manages, only barely slowing the pace.  “Sherlock, turn over.”

“Turn over?” asks Sherlock, his voice thick. “We aren’t on a bed. I can’t just _turn over_.”

“Just do it,” says John, unable to stop himself from chuckling at Sherlock’s snappy tone. Sherlock stops moving and John slips out for a second. Sherlock turns and leans back against the sink, raising his eyebrows.

“Is this your end goal, because I definitely preferred –”

“Shush,” says John. He reaches forward, grabs Sherlock by the back of his thighs, and lifts. Sherlock manages to keep his hold on the sink counter and then leans back to balance. John’s bends his knees to take more of his weight, adjusts, and sinks back in. Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s waist, throws his head back and moans. His head bounces off the counter, and for a moment John’s about to let him down and apologize, but Sherlock looks back over at him as though _ravenous_. John grins, and picks the pace back up.

He can see Sherlock’s thigh muscles working. He watches Sherlock’s gorgeous, lithe body undulate, observes Sherlock’s cock bouncing against his stomach. John lets one of his hands travel up Sherlock’s legs. He raises the hand to his mouth and licks a long stripe up his palm and grabs Sherlock’s cock. He starts working it in time with his thrusts and Sherlock whines.

“ _John_ ,” he groans, “Oh – god – John – oh – _god_!” John loves the way his name sounds in Sherlock’s sex-addled voice, the way it looks on Sherlock’s swollen, bitten lips. He keeps his hand on Sherlock’s cock, sliding it up and down, thumbing over the wet head and smearing the pre-come all over it. Sherlock’s cock is longer than John’s, but thinner, and John loves the feel of it, the weight of it in his hand. John wants to suck it for Sherlock the way Sherlock had for him, but there’s no way he can at this angle.

As John’s wrist twists and his thumb slides over the head, he realizes he must have done something very, very right, because Sherlock clenches around his cock. John feels his balls tighten and he knows he doesn’t have long now. He looks up at Sherlock and Sherlock looks down at him and their eyes are locked, unmovable from each other. John grabs Sherlock’s hips and pistons forward, at hard and fast as he possibly can go, and Sherlock _screams_ as he comes and John whites out as his orgasm explodes over him.

Carefully, he lets Sherlock down. They’re both panting and John has never felt so good about anything. He pulls his pants and jeans up, then leans over to retrieve Sherlock’s pants.

“These are yours, I believe,” he says cheekily. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and walks past him to pick up his trousers.

“I think not,” he says. “I believe they’re yours.” John’s heart beats faster for a moment and he grins.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he agrees. Sherlock goes into one of the stalls and perfunctorily cleans himself off. John does the same, disposing of the condom and splashing some water on his face. John pulls on his t-shirt while he waits. He glances at himself in one of the small mirrors and he looks exactly as shagged out as he feels. His hair is sticking up and there’s a budding bruise on his neck and it’s fantastic. Sherlock leaves the stall and looks surprised that John is still there.

“Oh,” he says. “Are you not leaving?” John shrugs.

“Not yet. What time is it?”

“Nearly two-thirty,” says Sherlock.

“Blimey,” says John. He looks at Sherlock. “I should actually be waking up my friends soon. We’re heading to Edinburgh. Where are you –”

“Don’t ask,” says Sherlock, looking away. “I’m just… You were right, earlier. I’m running from… things. Home. Problems.”

“Anything I can help with?” asks John, and Sherlock looks at him as though he’d grown an extra head rather than offered assistance.

“I… No. Nothing.” Sherlock stares at him. “Why would you even want to help? You don’t even know me.” John shrugs.

“Well, I know bits of you now,” says John. “And I like those bits. And I get that you only yelled at that girl because you’re stressed. Something’s wrong and you’re a good bloke and I’d like to help you, if I can.”

“You can’t help,” Sherlock says. “And I’m not a ‘good bloke.’”

“You’re upset, though,” says John. “And that could turn anybody into an arsehole. And I mean it. Even if you just want to… um… talk or something.”

Sherlock looks at him as though considering it for a moment. John isn’t sure if he wants Sherlock to talk to him about his problems or not. John’s always been a bit of a Shoulder To Cry On kind of friend, but this is a little different.

“No,” Sherlock finally says. “But… thank you.” John smiles.

“Of course,” he says. “Anytime.”

“You should go wake up your friends,” says Sherlock. “I have to be on my way as well.”

“You might want to take a nap, or get a room at the motel,” says John. “I don’t want you to fall asleep at the wheel and crash.” Sherlock smiles.

“Might do,” he says. “But might not.”

“Please get a bit of rest? Promise? For me?” John looks at him imploringly, not really expecting it to work, but Sherlock looks him directly in the eyes, searching for something. And then he leans down and gives John a soft kiss, almost chaste, despite what had just happened.

“I promise,” he says, and kisses John again. “Now go. You have places to be and friendships to maintain. And I have to… go.”

John pulls his jacket on and pats his pockets. On his way out of the loo he looks back at Sherlock. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t want to sound cheesy. He wants to let Sherlock know how wonderful it was to meet him, to be with him, to touch him, but he doesn’t want it to sound like goodbye. But it will, because it is. He takes a deep breath, gives Sherlock a small wave, and opens the door.

He walks through the Costa and the girl behind the counter raises her eyebrows suggestively. She doesn’t look annoyed, surprisingly, just amused. He shrugs at her and leaves. John pounds his fist against the window and Mike sits up, startled from sleep. He recognizes John and heaves an enormous sigh of relief. He shakes Bill awake and they unlock the car.

“Bloody hell, John, it’s almost three,” says Bill. “It’ll be _morning_ before we get there.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Mike. “That just means we got more sleep. Lord, John, you looked like you were about to fall over earlier. I don’t know how you stayed awake that much longer.”

John just shrugs and lays down in the backseat of the car. He lets the vibrations of the car rock him and the white noise of Mike and Bill’s conversation lull him. He sleeps, and dreams of waking up beside ice blue eyes.


End file.
